


lover boys on a pin prick cushion

by kuro49



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: White Knight (Comics), DCU
Genre: Bottom Jason Todd, Canon Compliant, Cock Warming, Imprisonment, M/M, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-18 22:48:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19344253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuro49/pseuds/kuro49
Summary: He screams himself hoarse the first time. He also cries plenty all the times after. He doesn't break but maybe, that would've been easier.Or, the one where Bruce brings home a ghost to fill a dead boy's bedroom.





	lover boys on a pin prick cushion

**Author's Note:**

> this is kind of my first foray into noncon stuff, and i'm not entirely sure how i feel about it yet aside from the fact that i made myself :'((( with this one. please heed the warnings.
> 
> a white knight verse brujay continuing from the ending but dialing the terrible to eleven where bruce brings home his first robin that never came back and basically not nice things happen, repeatedly.

 

i.

 

It is not about destruction. Or even the deconstruction of it. It is about prevention.

Of keeping the Batman's pain at bay.

And there is a whole lot of pain.

 

Jason doesn't fight when the Bat comes collecting.

Goes home with him with a solemn twist to his mouth, his fingers rough with scars, his wrists almost narrow in all the weight he's shed and never picked back up. The anger has long since run dry, sapped out of him like honey from a hive.

He becomes a ghost in the halls in the shape of a dead little bird that never made it home, and he breathes a shuddering breath.

He isn't an empty shell, he is a person, and that is much worse for what is to come in the days later.

 

When Bruce finds the man his first Robin grows into, he brings him home like it is something to be celebrated. Bruce is a broken boy with a broken toy, strings worn through to snap. They don't fit but that's precisely the point.

In the winding hallways of an empty manor, he brings home a ghost to fill a dead boy's bedroom.

 

"You would've died for me, Jay."

It's the truth. And this is one too.

"But I didn't, Bruce."

The manor is cold, is damp, feels like the cave has managed to make its way up here after all.

"You think you should've."

Jason's exhale comes out on a stumble, Bruce's hand wraps around his elbow to hold him steady.

"If given the chance—"

"I won't." Bruce tells him strictly, every edge sharp and near cutting, his grip going bone white. "I won't let you."

Jason has never been good at seeing the warning signs because Bruce doesn't let go even when it has Jason wincing.

The bruises doesn't go away for days after.

 

It's painful.

But that is how it's always been.

 

Time doesn't pass like it should here.

It feels stalled and stunted and suspended on one man's word.

Jason falls asleep curled up in the crook of the loveseat in the upstairs reading room with a book opened across his chest.

He wakes up in the crook of Bruce's arms aching from a kink in his neck. Bruce might have said something and he might have said nothing but Jason is falling asleep again even when it is uneasy, dreaming the stuff of nightmares even if he wakes up remembering not much of anything again.

Bruce takes the book from between Jason's hands and closes it without marking his spot. The cover is a lovely bounded dark green.

It might be a love story. It might be a tragedy. It might be a horror too when he wakes up dry heaving and on the verge of tears.

Because it might very well be one and the same.

 

It is not fear.

But it probably should have been.

 

Jason is a ghost in a house filled to the brim with them. And just when he thinks he is fading right with them, he sees the sweep of black at the end of the hall, the Bat in his full suit turning the corner. This is all Batman's territory. And Jason is a big part of it when the second Robin doesn't operate out of Gotham anymore. It is an empty nest when even Batgirl doesn't step foot in the cave. Let alone the manor itself.

 

No one comes, no one goes.

Nobody hears him scream.

 

 

ii.

 

He is alive.

His skin feeling inflamed by the reverent kisses Bruce leaves like brands. Across his jaw and down over the column of his neck until there isn't an inch of skin that Bruce has left alone.

No, he thinks.

No, no, _no_. He says.

"You have me, B." He tells him, on a rush. His hand on Bruce's chest, his wrists feeling thin enough to snap at the presence of the bat pressing on top of him. "You don't have to do this."

He bites the inside of his cheeks bloody. Until his mouth fills with the taste of copper and rust and his teeth is streaked with red.

"I have you, Jason. But I also intend to keep you."

Bruce seals his mouth over his the same moment he finally presses in, touches his tongue to his as he fills him up, taking every inch and tasting the worse of the fresh blood until there isn't a single thing left behind.

He blinks at the ceiling with blood on his mouth and the taste of salt from the tears that are falling freely now.

 

He is alive, even if he almost wishes he isn't.

He lives, but only barely.

 

Jason still loves Bruce.

And hasn't that always been the root of all of his pain.

 

"Is this your way of punishing me?"

Jason is asking on a rasp, pleading really even when he doesn't have the strength, his voice nearing completely gone.

"If this is how I have to keep you," Bruce is sweeping Jason's hair from his face, thumb rubbing at the mess of drying tears strewn across Jason's face, "I've got no qualms over the how."

He leans down. He presses his lips to Jason's temple.

When Jason exhales, it only hurts when he manages yet another inhale.

 

It is the same conversation every time. If Jason decides to answer at all when he is flinching on every contact even if he doesn't leave.

"I've got no intention of letting you go, Jaylad."

Maybe it's the name. Maybe it's the two of them standing there, Jason clutching the sheets to his chest as he sits in the center of the bed while Bruce's semen is still wet and hot inside of him.

"How about you, old man?" He tries for venomous but it falls near flat with a voice that sounds like it's been rubbed raw by sandpaper. "Did you intend to let me go that first time?"

Bruce passes him a wet towel, warm and kind even when nothing else is.

"Did _you_?" Bruce asks, finally, almost reluctantly, like he has no inclination of actually pursuing an answer he already knows.

Jason looks like he is at a complete loss when his eyes drop, lashes lowering until the only thing he sees is the death grip he has on that warm towel going cold. It is not his fault but he apologizes any way.

 

He screams himself hoarse the first time.

He also cries plenty all the times after.

He doesn't break but maybe, that would've been easier.

 

 

iii.

 

His childhood bedroom is a stand still memory.

The bed is switched out for a bigger one, placed at the same spot of his room while the rest is left suspended in a time when he was happy. His books lining the walls. His trinkets dotting the shelves. His life as it was holding like it is simply on pause.

Bruce comes in, shedding the Bat across the floor, still smelling like Kevlar and sweat from his patrol when he slips into the bed behind Jason.

The man presses a kiss to Jason's temple like he is feinting sleep instead of gazing out at the window with a half lidded stare emptied out of emotions. Lying on his side, the long line of his spine curved, his hands flexing into the sheets with his knuckles paling into a stark white.

It is the only indication he gives that he is still all here. He knows what's to come, he expect what's to come. The anticipation a deep dark dreadful thing that feels like tar settling to the bottom of his gut. His wrists are not rubbed raw by ropes or cuffs, they are not even red or purple in bruises in the shape of Bruce's hands that hold him down.

Bruce has never needed anything concrete to keep him here.

Jason wishes he did. If just to show this is a fight fought at all.

 

It isn't. He didn't come willing but he will not made to leave willingly either. He thinks this is what it means to come home at all. He thinks there are things worse to endure than to be raped by the man he loves. Jason isn't under any delusion here.

That is what this is.

 

Bruce reaches out. Tugs him to him, brings his back to his chest and slides a hand down the inside of Jason's thighs until he can cant his hips up and spread those legs apart. Again.

Jason has taken him countless times before, his body is practically carved out just for Bruce.

When he presses in, Jason gives without resistance, his hole soft and accommodating and fucked out on all the other times Bruce had him through and through. The half aborted noise of discomfort Jason allows to puncture out from between the lax parted mouth of his is swallowed up by the groan Bruce lets out at the perfect fit of himself inside of the body that lays prone for him.

There is no lube but Bruce hardly needs that either when there is still the clinging residue of his own release easing the way until he is nestled all the way inside of this body made just for him. The grit of what has leaked out of Jason to dry along the inside of his thighs is just one more incriminating piece of evidence to add to everything else that has gone wrong between them.

 

Bruce falls asleep just like that, with Jason warming his cock.

 

 

iv.

 

Coming home on a late rainy afternoon, Bruce doesn't find Jason in his room.

The fear that lodges in his throat feels like a choke hold.

Thinking on the only reasonable thought, there is a small spark that he thought he's long since snuffed out that is saying _good._ Jason has left once, and he will leave again. Bruce turns the whole house upside down looking for him, and there is a much bigger part that is thinking to setting a fire to all of it if just to find his first Robin. Again.

He is sitting in the kitchen, head in his hands, ignoring the torn bloody skin of his knuckles and the splinters still embedded in them when he punched several holes into several walls. He looks up only because he hears the softest noise. An exhale that isn't his own.

Jason is soaked to the bone, bare feet caked in mud, and standing there at the threshold of the kitchen like he thought all of this would've already been razed to the ground.

 

"You should've left."

Bruce is sick, and this admittance confirms that he knows this too.

"I know."

 

Jason comes back.

Crushed to his chest with Bruce entirely unsure if he knows how to ever let go again, Jason tells him that he was at Alfred's grave.

Bruce doesn't reply.

 

He fucks him, right there on the kitchen floor.

Flakes of mud coming off of his bare skin while the buttons of his soaked shirt goes scattering across the cold marble floor while Bruce tears into him.

Jason is staring up at the ceiling as Bruce's hands trail heat down his sides, tracing his ribs until his fingers are sinking into the soft dip of his waist. Jason breathes, on an inhale that rattles and an exhale that shakes.

He goes as far as to lift his hips from the ground for Bruce's hand to undo the loose button of his pants and peel the rest of the heavy rain-logged fabric off of the stretch of his legs and the curl of his toes.

Bruce ducks his head to drag his mouth roughly down the freezing skin of Jason's neck to map a biting trail across his chest. His nose nudging at Jason's sternum while his lips suck at his skin until he is going flush. Cheeks then throat then chest, heat and goosebumps rising beneath the clammy chill of flesh when Bruce doesn't stop.

He arches his back, presents his chest to Bruce like the blooming bruises aren't nearly enough when he is gasping out something that almost sounds like a sob.

It is a terrible sound.

 

There are still worse things though. There is the litany of the same three syllables falling from his reddened mouth. Kiss-bruised and swollen from use, and Bruce's alone.

No, he says.

Bruce, he pleads. _Please._

And so it goes. Again, and again like there is a way out of this. When Jason comes, it is forced out of him like a gut punch. It is enough to have him blacking out, right then and there on the ground, with Bruce still fucking into him.

 

It is not about creation. Of making something out of nothing. It is about rendering the Robin's suffering moot. Of going back to the start, but not to start over.

Turns out, there is more than enough suffering to keep them both going.

 

 


End file.
